


Interpretive Centers of Midgard

by tolarian



Series: Trefoil [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom, Thor (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drunk Clint Barton, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, M/M, Minor Jane Foster/Thor, Past Stucky, Thor (Marvel) is Not Stupid, Thundershield - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-06 07:29:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17341181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tolarian/pseuds/tolarian
Summary: or, Five Conversations about Steve Rogers (Plus One with the Man Himself)Thor takes a break from touring New York with the Captain to ask his team-mates for some Steve Rogers-related insight.Takes place not long after the events of Whosoever Holds This Frying Pan; I do suggest reading it for context.





	1. Tony

**Author's Note:**

> So, Steve's rueful remembering in Trefoil led to a prequel and now the prequel has a sequel. 
> 
> Huge thanks to dancing4thedead and impossibletothinkthrough, who very kindly beta'd sections of this. Any mistakes are my own!
> 
> Content Notes at the end!

“I can’t help but notice you’ve been chasing after our Fearless Leader,” Stark says, raising the face-plate of his armor, and revealing a fey smile. “Did Harvey Birdman show you Cap’s old comics, or what?”

They are testing a new design of Stark’s: he has clearly taken Thor’s strength and superiority during their battle in the forest as a challenge to his genius. This iteration of his armor does show improvement, but not enough.

He can still send Stark flying with a headbutt.

“Comics?” Thor asks, looking over Mjölnir. The fussing is unnecessary: nothing of Midgard could harm her. However, he likes to attend to her. Besides, once Stark shows his face, there is sure to be nothing but talk for some time.

“Comics. Little cartoons with very muscular men in tight clothes. Phil must have had all of the ones about Cap.” Stark’s expression freezes, then he returns to his typical air of benevolent arrogance. “I assumed you’d been doing some reading, with the way you’ve been at him. Trying to be his new Bucky. You’d look great in the mask.”

The joke, even made in ignorance, irks him. He has been extremely respectful of the Captain’s personal boundaries, which are numerous even for a Midgardian. Thor peers into Stark’s eyes, curious what the man knows. “Sergeant Barnes is featured in these tales?”

Stark blinks, then snaps his fingers. His armor begins detaching itself, retreating into the segmenting, opening floor tiles. His machines blunder around the workshop, excited by their master’s transition from testing to a more generalized fiddling with his projects.

 “Wait, how do you know his  _name_? Do you have a library card I don’t know about, Van Halen?”

The Captain may not want it known that they have discussed his personal history, Thor considers, least of all by Stark. Time spent together in the Tower and around the city has only confirmed his reticence off the field of battle. “I have read the Captain’s files provided by the commander Fury. They make for interesting reading.”

“Maybe if you’ve never read a comic,” Stark replies. The armor has nearly withdrawn entirely, leaving him in his ragged garments, glowing sigil visible beneath his shirt. “That why you’re his newest fanboy?”

Thor flips Mjölnir by her handle: her balance is perfect. She needs no iterations, no replacements. “I do not understand that word.”

“Fanboy,” Stark repeats, pulling up a screen and making notes on their recent tests. He scowls and his flippancy is edged. “A boy who is a huge fan of Cap and his good posture and his surprisingly full set of teeth, given he grew up during the Depression.”

This is about Stark’s dislike of the Captain, of course. Stark is a good man—better than he believes himself to be—but he is confused by the Captain, frustrated by the apparent ease with which the man holds himself to such high moral standards. Stark is happy to proclaim him boring. The Captain’s consistent lack of reaction to his taunts must drive their host mad. There is more to their seeming enmity, presumably, but that is all Thor is sure of.

“He is a very admirable man. Do you not agree?”

“Well, obviously, I think Captain Americana is just dandy. It’s part of the Pledge of Allegiance. Schoolchildren have to talk about Cap’s dreamy blue eyes every morning, did you know that?” Stark dispels his notes with a wave of his hand and accepts a drink from one of his machines. “But that doesn’t explain why you’re so  _interested_ recently.”

The Captain’s eyes are wry and reluctant to give up their secrets. They had narrowed two nights’ before, when the lights of the theater dimmed, and waited for the music to swell. The singing, entrepreneurial urchins onstage had been diverting enough, but the softening of the Captain’s eyes at their antics and broad accents was what had remained in his mind since.

Stark slumps into a chair. His machines dither around him. He flips a hand toward a nearby box.  “The file not detailed enough for you, Surfin’ USA? I would have thought they had everything down to his shoe-size.”

He sits with care. Midgardian furniture is not built for him: a box may fare even worse with his weight. Even a box subject to the abuse Stark heaps upon anything that enters his lab, sentient beings included. “Mayhap they do,” Thor responds. “But why read further when the man himself lives a few floors below?”

“Because Cap’s a monk. A hermit. He should be living on a Victorian estate somewhere.  _My_ Victorian estate. If he’s venturing out from the hermitage, it should be to hang out with me.”

“But you do not like the Captain,” Thor observes. Since acquiring Banner’s uneasy friendship, Stark has saved much of his needling for their leader. It is perhaps not so different from Sif’s punches in the stomach as an invitation to sport when they were children, or Loki’s more edged play, with rarely came with any warning.

The Captain does not respond to Stark’s overtures. Perhaps punching would be wiser: the Captain is much more comfortable with physical activity than words. 

“Me? I love the guy. I just think he needs to tone down the Greatest Generation moral high ground and jingoistic iconography a bit. And stop wearing pleated pants. Even  _just_ the pants. Then we can be great pals.” Stark eyes him and sips his drink. “So, has he actually been saying yes to your dates?” 

 “We have spent some time together, yes,” Thor confirms. They often visit locations of interest to one or both of them. The Captain has days when he cannot keep still in a room: there is a desperate edge to the relief in his eyes when they have somewhere to go, something to do. Sometimes when they meet by chance in the Tower, he is tempted to put the man in a sack and haul him outside. “The Captain has a great interest in museums.”

“Ugh, war memorials?”

“Art. Our last visit outside the Tower together was to the—” Thor shapes the word carefully in his mouth. “—Guggenheim.” A lovely word, something of the greater Nine Realms in the heart of Midgard.

“Early moderns, not surprising. Well, maybe a little surprising. There’s probably some portraits of him in there. Any nudes?”

“Actually, our primary aim was to see a collection of photography by an artist who came to prominence after the Captain’s time. Mapplethorpe.”

The Captain  _had_ blushed slightly at some of the content but had quickly been drawn in by its composition. He had kept up a rushing commentary, which had been very pleasant to hear, if slightly difficult to follow. 

His excited explanations were so different from his directives in battle: alight with joy and consternation, admiration and envy. And the flush spreading up from his collar. Flashes of the other man, the one Barnes knew and loved. 

Perhaps that is what Stark meant by a “fanboy.”

Stark’s eyes widen. “Mapplethorpe. Huh. They left  _that_ out of the history books. I wonder if Pops knew.” Stark reddens and when he speaks again, his voice is strained. “Is it possible you and Cap are dating, but one or both of you just don’t know? Does Marie Curie know?” He rolls his eyes when there is no response to the jibe. “Foster, I mean Foster.”

“Jane is aware of our friendship, yes. The Captain’s interest in portraiture comes from his work as an artist, I believe.” Explaining that he and Jane are not formally courting at present would only cause another conversation.

“What?”

“I thought you too had read the Captain’s file?”

“I  _skimmed_ it.”

“There is much about the man we do not know,” Thor says. “I would like to know more. When he indulged me by going to see the Statue to Liberty, we stopped at a museum of those who came to your land by sea. He was able to identify the ship that brought his mother to this land, in their records. The staff were quite joyous once they realized who he was.” 

It is a common occurrence, much to the Captain’s badly hidden discomfort. He is unfailingly kind when approached but such interactions leave him withdrawn. Many things do.

Thor grins at the memory: a guide had asked him if he identified as an immigrant, and he had mulled the question over while the Captain had excitedly pressed another guide about local organizations supporting the rights of those new to this country. 

“Statue  _of_ Liberty,” Stark corrected, “And what? Why wasn’t I invited to this amusing jaunt? I mean, I don't go on ferries, but the polite thing to do on Earth is to  _offer_. That’s a very important social custom, Point Break, especially when you’re living in someone’s Tower.”

“Noted,” Thor says. He can feel the box beginning to buckle underneath him and takes his leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Note:  
> \- Thor refers to going to see a Mapplethorpe exhibit with Steve and makes some indirect references to the sexual explicitness of some of the art


	2. Natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor and Natasha multi-task.

The conversation with the Widow is much more immediately practical. They are engaged in mock-battle, as if she is armed with an Asgardian poison. Every time she manages to prod him with her forefinger, she earns a point. Every time he manages to subdue her, he earns a point.

At first, she earned many points. She wriggled like an eel.

Now, he has adjusted enough to her remarkable agility to ask her questions. She has taken several falls and his mind is beginning to wander, pleasing though the falls were.

“How does the Captain spend his time?”

She does a handspring, leaping up to snare his neck with her thighs. That was how she earned her second point. He sidesteps further than he would, were they not playing by such specific rules. Her reach is small, but she is agile and rarely telegraphs her moves.

“Why would I know?”

“You are very well-informed,” he responds. 

Perhaps she thinks he had assumed they were lovers? The Captain is a very handsome man and the Widow is the only unattached woman among their company. Her relationship with Barton appears to be one of deep comradeship rather than romance. She is uninterested in Stark’s flirting. And Banner curates an air of neutrality in most things, including the obvious fact of the Widow’s beauty.

“True,” she says. “He works out a lot. Runs. Destroys punching bags. Volunteers—mostly places he can work unnoticed in the back. Goes to museums with you, lately.”

They are due to visit a menagerie near where the Captain grew up. They have such things in Asgard, but the Captain had spoken of the place fondly, of sketching its carvings before his transformation. Presumably there will also be animals. Midgardian creatures tend to be small, but they are often quite cute.

“What did he do before?”

“Went to museums alone.”

She examines him, waiting for an opening.

“He takes no lovers?” He suspects as much, but the Widow will  _know_. 

“There’s a woman,” the Widow says.

He hesitates and she takes the advantage to slip inside his guard. She presses a slim finger to his neck. “That’s interesting,” she comments and easily disengages. “Point for me.”

He scowls, displeased by his error. He cracks his neck as they square off again, readying for another attack. It is like inviting a stinging insect to dance. 

“She’s ninety-two and she lives in D.C.” the Widow says. Something about the description does resound in his memory; the Captain has discussed a friend from his past who yet lives. A woman he loved when he was a youth. “How’s Dr. Foster?”

“Very well,” he announces, feinting towards her. She dodges—barely—maintaining a skeptical expression throughout the movement. 

“I will visit her some weeks hence,” he adds.

“That’ll leave Rogers alone,” she says, and scores another point by rolling behind him and poking him in the thigh.

“Hold,” he says, distracted and annoyed. Annoyed at himself for allowing such distraction. 

“But I’m winning again,” she says, blowing on her pointer finger. It is a gesture he has seen Stark do—a smug Midgardian sign of victory.

“You’ve won,” he admits and pushes his fingers through his hair. “Why do you not pursue the Captain’s friendship? Why do the others not?”

“Rogers doesn’t _want_ to be friends.” The Widow shrugs as she reaches for a bright container of water. The sweat on her skin leaves her flush: a rosy glow against the carmine of her hair. Would the Captain be interested in bedding her? He seems to be deep in mourning still for Barnes. His eloquent hands would frame the Widow’s neck beautifully; but perhaps it would be otherwise. The man who did not kneel to his brother might bow to a gentler hand, might yield like the subjects in the photographs at the museum.

Another distracting thought.

The Widow’s voice cuts in. “If it were tactically advantageous, I’d be friends with him.” She winks and drinks deeply. It is unclear to what degree the statement is a jest. “It would take some work, though.”

“He has accepted  _my_ invitations.” Near all of them.

“You are literally a force of nature,” she observes dryly. At his darkening expression, she sighs. “If he wanted to say no, he would. He’s just not ready to be buddies with everyone. Why do you think he drank himself into a stupor the one time he joined a group activity that didn’t take place in a disaster area?” She sips more water and sweat trickles down her jaw. “You’re the best one to start off with. You’re the nicest.”

“Barton is very personable.”

“Barton had a Captain America poster in his trailer growing up. He still sees Rogers as a symbol.”

“And you?”

“I grew up somewhere they didn’t put Cap on the wall.”

“And?”

“He’s a very good man,” she says, shrugging. Her tone does not make it clear if this is a positive or negative character trait. Her obfuscation makes his hands clench.  

“Indeed,” he agrees. “Thank you for your time.”

“You should spar with Rogers, see if you can pin him,” she says, turning to leave.

An interesting thought. Of course, he can easily outmatch the Captain’s strength; a pure wrestling match would serve no purpose other than to embarrass the Captain. And he is so easily embarrassed. However, his shield has withstood Mjölnir. The shield is impressive, but it conceals no secrets. He wondered, at first, if it might have a similar—if lesser—spirit to his hammer, but it is merely cold metal, alive only in the Captain’s hands.  

In secure conditions, the bout might be diverting, leaving the Captain flush with effort. 

It is not a terrible idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Notes:  
> \- Thor and Natasha spar  
> \- Thor imagines how Steve and Natasha might be sexually involved; he indirectly references consensual BDSM  
> 


	3. Clint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drunk History, starring Clint Barton.
> 
> Content Notes at the end.

“The thing is—the thing  _is_ ,” Barton says, gesturing with his drink, “He’s like an icon, right? There’s been movies about him, Ken Burns did a documentary that was like seventeen  _hours_.”

“You have watched it?”

“Nah, I hate documentaries.” Barton dismisses the thought with a wave. The colorful lights of the tavern reflect on his skin: apparently the bright shades are the result of trapped gases. Thor assumes they are inert.

Barton rediscovers his point. “It’s just that you grow up and Captain America is like, who  _everyone_ wants to be when you’re playing, when you’re not getting, like, chased, because kids are monsters, and then they find him  _in a block of ice_  and the first time you meet the guy, you’re trying to murder all of your friends and coworkers.” 

“I think I have lost your meaning.”

Barton belches. Of all their company, he would be the best-suited to Asgard. He is friendly and has little to no worries about decorum. The basement tavern in which they drink is one of his favorites: they often return here when no others of their company are interested in socializing. Thor has imagined inviting the Captain, but he cannot attempt it until Barton is less awed by the man.

If he did grow up with images of the Captain on his wall, what had they looked like? Early on in their time together, Stark had delighted in displaying art imagining the Captain in all sorts of provocative poses. For a few weeks, whenever the Captain turned on the central screen during a meeting reviewing their fieldwork, it was likely that the first image to appear would be a drawing of him.  A sketched study of his muscularity or, more perplexing, lush illustrations of the Captain dressed up in the costumes of traditional Midgardian occupations. Healers, archivists, seamen. The Captain never reacted, beyond the blush creeping up from the neck of his uniform: it is the steadfast herald of his discomfort.

Presumably as a boy Barton had seen different images. Then again, perhaps not; there had been so  _many_  pictures.

Barton is gone for long stretches. His work for SHIELD takes him far afield. But his time spent in the Tower is always a blessing, whether he returns looking hale and tan or covered in bandages. The Widow relaxes infinitesimally in his presence.

“Dunno. You got big deal heroes like that on Asgard?” He squints, looking at Thor suspiciously. “Wait, that’s  _you_ , right? Back home?”

“Indeed,” Thor replies, drinking his ale. It is quite good despite its weakness: cask-conditioned as many Midgardian ales are not. The brewers of Asgard would be quite appalled by Midgardian standards for beer.

“Well, then you won’t get it,” Barton says. He attempts drinking, but deposits most of the liquid on his face. “Aw, beer.” He wipes his face with his shirt, revealing old scars and fresh bruises on a pale, taut belly. Barton would fit in  _very_ well in Asgard. “Say, who was your hero growing up?”

Thor considers the question. There are many possible responses, many heroes of Asgard both alive and long-lost: Heimdall’s loyal watch, Baldr’s goodness, their mother’s knowledge of mysteries. And yet there is only one real answer. “My father. He is our King and the man who brought peace to our realm.”

“He really got a nine-legged horse?”

“Eight.” It is not the time to elaborate on the horse's provenance. 

Barton squints as if marking a target, one that lists slightly as he shifts on his stool. “Well, imagine you’re supposed to go out and fight, whole city’s on the line, but there’s your dad. But he’s not your dad, he’s  _America’s_ dad, and he’s the young version, and his lips are all pouty and it’s just fuckin’ weird.”

“That would be odd,” Thor concurs, though Barton’s point is not much clearer. It is of no matter, the man is very good company, even deep in his cups. Nothing like the Captain was, happily. Stark’s crude pictures hadn’t done the man’s sulky squirm justice.

Thor clears his throat and refocuses on Barton, who toasts him with an empty bottle.

“Now you’re getting it, big guy.”

“I would still like to invite the Captain along with us in the future.”

“It’s gonna be  _weird_ ,” Barton promises. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Notes  
> \- Clint and Thor drink; Clint is very inebriated but he is in no danger  
> \- Thor remembers Tony sexually harassing Steve with Cap pin-ups on the screen during Avengers meetings  
> \- Clint references childhood bullying, as well as his brainwashing and the attack on the helicarrier  
> \- In this scene and elsewhere, the story references Clint getting injured  
> 


	4. Bruce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meditation and tea with Bruce and a cameo from everyone's favourite CEO.
> 
> Content Notes at the end!

Dr. Banner takes a deep breath. The Lady Pepper matches her breath to his—barely a moment behind—and between the two, the sound is a complex, quiet music.

“Now, if you have a particular thought that draws your attention from your breath, that’s fine. Don’t judge yourself. Just gently bring your attention back to your breath,” Banner says serenely.

“I have done so."

“But you don’t need to announce it.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.”

The spirit of Stark’s building speaks. “Pardon me, Ms. Potts, but there’s an urgent call from the Guggenheim Foundation. Sir has attempted to buy a number of their collections and threatened to withhold Stark Industries’ yearly donation and fundraising gala unless his offer is accepted.”

“ _What_?” The Lady Pepper does not sound relaxed. “Oh god, Tony.” She rises from the floor  with a tense grace. “Please excuse me, Bruce. Bye, Thor!”

“This seems like a natural place to pause,” Banner says as Thor waves farewell to the lady.

“Strange, I recently visited that museum. The Collection does seem very impressive, though. I can see why Stark might wish to acquire it.”

“I know,” Banner replies, gently rolling his neck.  Does the beast within him enjoy these sessions, or do they soothe only his host? “Tony had a lot to say about it.”

“The Captain and I seem to have offended him by not inviting him to our travels in the city.” Their recent visit to a collection of Midgardian animals had been delightful and Stark would be wise to envy it. The Captain had laughed at the children squealing as livestock ate grain from their hands. He had been willing to feed the animals himself after only a little coaxing. Lamentably, he had not squealed, but his face contorted in animated dismay as a small goat finished the grain in his palm and made a spirited attempt to chew his sleeve.

The staff had promised Thor copies of the newsletter in which a picture of the encounter was to be immortalized.

Dr. Banner stands and walks toward the kitchen. “I don’t think that’s it,” he says, considering the contents of a cupboard, the many boxes within.  The Lady Pepper favors the green boxes while Banner’s preference depends on whether he prepares something for others or only himself. “Tea?”

“Yes, please.” Thor follows as Banner closes the cupboard and opens the refrigerator instead. The shared floor is well-suited to social rituals; there is an impressive larder and a wide, clear room for when Banner has meditation sessions with the Lady Pepper. Both he and she are in great need of relaxation. For similar reasons, even.

The Captain is similarly stressed, but the sessions would only agitate him further. The image of the Captain fighting to keep still between Banner and the Lady Pepper is more tragic than amusing.

“I take it that Stark does not intend to repeat the visit with the collection under his ownership?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Banner responds, pouring milk into a pot and setting it on the stove to heat. Perhaps it is his composure that makes the Midgardian technology seem less clumsy. He does not make tea like the Lady Pepper, who sets the noisy kettle and excuses herself to receive a call. “You may have noticed Steve is a bit of a sore subject for him.”

“Indeed. They are very ill-suited to each other.” 

“Not just that. You know that Tony’s father knew Steve?” Banner opens a different cupboard, drawing out small bottles and packets; he looks like an apothecary, eyeing the contents of one before tipping out a few green pods into a mortar, before considering another bottle. The movements are practiced but unhurried, as calm with a mortar and pestle as with a broken limb.

Curious how the Captain seems to remind men of their fathers. He is so  _young_ , even for a Midgardian.

“His technology was instrumental in the Captain’s transformation, yes?”

Banner nods as he pulverizes the contents of the mortar. Thor imagines their great green comrade, pleased by the rhythm that crushes ingredients to powder. “Yes,” the doctor adds, “But after Steve’s plane went down, Howard spent a lot of time and money trying to find him. He never stopped looking.”

“Then Stark is angry he did not complete his father’s errand?”

“No, that is  _definitely_ not it.” Banner tips the aromatic mixture into the pot, agitating the contents before turning his attention to grating cinnamon bark. A Midgardian plant; it smells like offerings, like attempts to placate wrath. “Your, uh, your brother. How would he feel about someone your father loved? Someone he paid a lot of attention to, when you were young?”

Thor considers the idea. “Ah,” he says.

“Don’t tell Tony I compared him to your brother.” Banner winces slightly as he adds the cinnamon to the pot, swirling the contents again. “No offense.”

“None taken.” His brother is not a welcome subject in the Tower, for understandable reasons. Thor discusses him only in the privacy of his rooms, telling stories of their youth while the Captain listens.

Loki’s name does not appear to provoke the Captain: he does not hide fear behind scorn, like Stark, or tense in remembered horror, like Barton. Perhaps this is the difference: Loki did not nearly cause his death, did not warp his mind, and as a result, he does not haunt him. 

The Captain treats the idea of Loki with the civility that a victor has for the defeated.

Thor watches Banner, so much rage contained in a seemingly frail body. A brilliant mind that called forth its own monster in an attempt to recreate the Captain’s abilities. Loki had depended on the monster to scatter their company. He never anticipated that it might be their ally.

“What do you think of the Captain?” he asks.

Banner makes a non-committal noise and strains the mixture into another pot. He eyes the steaming drink critically before carrying it to the table. “Get those glasses on the corner cupboard, will you? The tall ones.”

Thor gathers them in his hands, following the doctor.

“I understand not being ready to be friends with the group,” Banner says carefully as Thor places the tall glasses down. “I mostly hang out with Tony, a little with Ms. Potts. Steve spends his time with you, I imagine?”

“Not nearly as much as you do with Stark, no.” There really is no comparison: the two spend much time in Stark’s chambers, attempting arcane experiments. Most of what he knows about the Captain’s schedule has come from the Widow, who has begun updating him. The Captain appears to spend much time alone in his apartment; exactly how the Widow knows this is a mystery.

“Hm,” Banner considers this, pouring the drink into the glasses and setting the pot on a protective pad. “Guess you’re just starting out, then.” He takes a deep breath, staring at the tea as if debating whether to serve it or dispose of it. “You’ve read his file?”

“Yes.” Granted, only once, to see to what degree Barnes has been included in the Captain’s official history. All that had been in print was their friendship and the man’s death in battle. And the Captain’s sacrifice, scant weeks after. 

“I’ve read  _all_ the files on Steve Rogers. Some of the previous researchers speculated that he was the variable that made the serum work.” Banner laughs, knuckling his jaw. “I had to believe they were wrong, but I read their notes anyway. Dissertations, interviews with old neighbors, whatever I could get.” 

Thor watches the man. He has seen most of their company adrift in memory by now. Banner’s reminiscing makes him shut his eyes and shake the past away when he blinks. 

Banner continues. “Nothing about him should have  _worked_. He was an unhealthy, under-educated, barely-employed kid who was  _definitely_ going to die of pneumonia or a bad blow to the head sooner or later." 

An image attached to a file: the Captain prior to the serum, slim and defiant. Thor tries to imagine that youth sketching the bas-reliefs in the menagerie with bloody-knuckled, raw-boned hands.

"But instead, he became Captain America.”

Thor blinks, unsure what this point of the  doctor's narrative is. Sudden awareness creases his brow. “While you became...”

“Became the other guy, yeah. It does suggest some innate differences, doesn’t it?” Banner passes judgment on the tea and hands him a steaming glass. “That’ll be hot,” he warns.

Thor feels the heat of the cup in his hands, concentrated in his palm. It is not unpleasant. “There were other differences, particularly the circumstances of your experiments.” He considers the scientist and adds, “You can hardly consider your condition the result of a moral failing.”

Banner shrugs. “That’s one interpretation.”

Admirable though he is, the Captain is not perfect. He is not always exactly pleasant to spend time with: he retreats into stiffness and silence when embarrassed. And he is often embarrassed.

Banner has remained silent since his earlier dismissal. Thor clears his throat to ascertain whether he has the man’s attention. Banner’s response to being touched evidences only mild disapproval, but in the man’s restrained lexicon, the tiny shake of his head is a grave warning.

“Does Stark enable you to connect with the rest of our company?”

Banner carefully takes the remaining glass, lifting it to his nose and closing his eyes. “Hm. He certainly makes it a pleasant alternative.” There is a twitch of a smile in his lips, however. The Doctor’s humor is saturnine: he contrasts sharply with Stark, but their shared intelligence and mutual respect unite them. Like the Widow and Barton: deeply unalike each other, but made kin partly by sharing something rare, and partly by choice.

What would link him, or any of them, with the Captain? A matter to consider.

Thor sips his tea. The drink, still hot, tastes like tribute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Notes:  
> \- Bruce, Pepper and Thor meditate.  
> \- Thor refers to Tony's traumatic near-death experience and Clint's being brainwashed.  
> \- Bruce mentions that Steve probably would have fallen ill or been fatally injured, if he hadn't been given the serum  
> \- Brief reference to blood


	5. Jane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Skype session and some bad ideas for outings.
> 
> Content Notes at the end!

Jane smiles at him through the machine. When she shifts to frown into her coffee cup or tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, the screen struggles to catch up. She blurs in mismatched squares, looking rather like some of the art the Captain had showed him the previous evening on his computer. But when she holds still, her smile is revealed in all its wise beauty.

“You had tea with the Hulk,” she grins.

“That is awesome!” Darcy’s voice is distorted, but her enthusiasm is clear enough.

“I had tea with Dr. Banner,” Thor corrects. “I have never seen the Hulk eat or drink.” He wrinkles his brow, realizing his error. “No, I once saw him slake his thirst from a damaged pipe. The blast of the water blew Barton entirely clear. He was fortunate that he was only mildly injured when the Hulk caught him.”

“Why can’t we study astrophysics in New York?” Darcy again, plaintive.

“The rent’s too high. Also, light pollution.”

Jane’s intelligence sometimes masks her youth; her humor brings it to the fore, shows its warmth in her eyes. He is sorry that the mood of their meeting is likely to soon shift, out of no fault of her own.

“Still on for our visit?”

“I am unsure if I will be able to make it.”

“Oh,” she says. “Oh, okay.”

“What the hell, man?”

“Darcy, go to your room,” Jane orders. Her tone softens. “Too many burst pipes?”

It is not the first time one of them has had to cancel a visit. It is, however, the first time the reason has been more complex than a speaking engagement or a sudden attack on the city. The Widow’s casual observation— _“That’ll leave Rogers alone”—_ had made a din in his head that neither exercises with her nor copious amounts of beer with Barton could banish.

The noise had quieted when he resolved to delay his visit. He will introduce the Captain to Barton in an informal setting, then ask, possibly bribe, the archer to invite the Captain to the museums and pleasure gardens that Stark seems to be acquiring at a remarkable rate. If all seems well, he will go see Jane.

“It’s okay,” Jane says kindly. Considering her interests are so arcane to the average Midgardian, she is very patient: most of the scholars he has met have been all the more brittle the more obscure their passions were to the public. Instead, the privacy of her work suits her intense focus.

“If I delay by a week, will my visit still be welcome?”

Their relationship is complex; they have made no promises, save to make the effort to stay in contact. Jane admitted during his last visit that the great passion of her life is her work; it is not so different from his vow to protect Midgard. However, as Jane has reminded him, the ways in which a relationship—any relationship—is structured are solely determined by those persons involved.

How had the Captain and Barnes made their life together, in a time when they had to hide? Had the man been able to get the Captain to discuss his feelings without resorting to bribery or force? Had he plied him with spirits to get slim arms to twine around his neck, bruised lips to whisper truths in his ear?

Jane consults her phone and the complex calendar contained within. “As long as you don’t mind babysitting Darcy while I give a guest lecture on Wednesday. You can’t come. You’ll distract the undergrads. What else have you been doing?”

She would understand the reasons for the delay if he explained: she is well-aware of his desire to shift the Captain from his melancholy. If he explained. 

“Thor? Are you still there? You live in  _Stark Tower_ , I can’t understand why you have such garbage reception.”

In truth, these calls are only feasible if he leaves Mjölnir in the farthest corner of the floor: she appears to confound forces such as the internet. He has not informed Stark of the phenomenon: the man would be consumed by curiosity and would want to study her. 

“My apologies, Jane. Recently, I attended something called immersive theater. It seems to have been primarily based on a Midgardian play titled Macbeth. A tale of dishonor and folly.”

“Is it that weird thing with the masks?” Darcy has escaped her exile.

“Yes,” he confirms. “It was very odd indeed! The actors go about their business, while the audience wanders, masked like performers themselves.”

“Did you manage to get anyone else to go?” Jane has been very supportive of his efforts to get the Captain to bond with the rest of their company. There is no reason for him to prevaricate.

“I did not ask. The Captain seemed embarrassed by his interest in the event.” He mulled over the thought. “I am not sure he enjoyed himself. Though the use of masks did make us less conspicuous.”

“ _Sure_ they did. Two giant blond dudes out for a night of theater. Nothing odd about that.”

“At least he’s getting out in the world?”

“Indeed. I find your world baffling, but I am at peace with it. The Captain is not. He expects familiarity here and finds little.”

“Has he told you to call him Steve yet?” Darcy has reappeared in the screen, leaning over Jane. She has procured some kind of iced dessert and speaks around a mouthful. “ _Please_  tell me you call him Steve.”

Steve. Dr. Banner calls the Captain Steve, familiar with the facts and measurements of the man’s life. The rest of their team calls him by his title, his surname, or, in Stark’s case, a rotating array of obscure appellations. But Stark hails everyone in such a way.

“I am not sure I would be comfortable doing so.”

“Clearly you haven’t gone to enough weird theater shit. Take him to some douchey comedy club! He’ll  _hate_ it.”

A sudden image: the Captain lecturing a man for making a sexist jibe.

Jane frowns. “Does he...like humor?”

The Captain possesses a perverse sense of humor; rather than being licentious, it is subtle to the point of being spectral. Only when he is deeply relaxed does the twitch of his lips or the barest rise of a brow signal that he is anything other than entirely earnest. 

“I think it might be best to adhere to our current patterns.”

Their next planned outing is a visit to the Empire State Building. It will be very novel to ascend it from within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Notes:  
> \- references to injury; some strong language


	6. Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> +1: Steve, on and off the field. 
> 
> Content Notes at the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hat-tip to flavea's lovely [Save You, Save Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16047191/chapters/37462445), which recently mentioned Coney Island and the serendipity got me off my ass to post the last chapter of this.

The Captain’s hand is steady on Stark’s armored shoulder and he speaks quietly. Were Thor inclined, he could pick up the individual words shaped by his lips. But the distance in Stark’s stare suggests that the conversation is best left private.

Their most recent foe used the creation of portals and flying robots to facilitate the theft of artistic treasures—several of them among the many recently acquired by Stark. The villain’s creations had malfunctioned, creating unstable rifts in the city's southwest. The portals would open and collapse, taking sections of buildings with them.

Amid the tumult, Stark had flown into an unexpected portal and disappeared.

His strange silence on their communications afterward should have made Thor suspicious, but he had been focused on destroying the central machine in the rubble of a warehouse.

Tracking their comrades was the Captain’s purview. And he had found Stark, and he had gone silent, too, after telling Barton to take over coordination of rescue efforts, aided by SHIELD forces. There was debris to clear, survivors to locate.

And now, with much done, the Captain remains in conference with Stark. Despite the dust, he remains alight with the joy of battle, of action. He is at his best in such circumstances, at his most alive before the smoke clears.

They have converged at the Captain’s location on Barton’s orders. A SHIELD vehicle waits to return them to the Tower. Stark flinches as they gather, shrugging off his ally’s hand. He says something and the Captain’s expression freezes. He leaves Stark to Banner, recently arrived from the Tower.

The Captain moves now with stiff shoulders and he looks over to meet Thor’s gaze. His expression is carefully controlled.

“Joining us on the jet or taking your own way back?” he calls over the distance, leaving his communication device unhooked at his collar.

Thor raises Mjölnir in salute and begins to spin her toward the sky. He has no wish to watch the Captain withdraw further in the close confines of the SHIELD craft.

The flight to the Tower is an annoyance. Upon his return, he drops Mjölnir to the floor and paces his quarters. Typically, he would exhort the others to eat and drink in celebration, but the idea does not satisfy. He does not bathe or order food and only partly removes his armor. Every task is a bother.

Better to be back on the field; taking part in the rescues, smashing another machine. Their great green ally did not join them in this battle, which was a pity; it would have been a pleasure to fight alongside the beast, to wrangle it when it needed to rest. It was far better for Banner to avoid such exertion, of course, but this wretched disquiet might have been lessened by more honest action.

The Captain would understand. He rarely joins their celebrations after battle. Thor imagines this is how he spends his isolation, pacing and annoyed.

He spits dust and mucus into the kitchen sink. When he opens the refrigerator, the door flies wide, wrenched half-off its hinges. He groans and reaches for a box of beer. When he returns to the sitting area, the light from the broken device bleaches color from the room.

“Sir, I can dispatch a maintenance worker to perform repairs,” the spirit of the building announces.

“Leave it,” he barks and opens the first bottle. Let the food rot. The waste suits his mood. He sits and sullenly strains ale through his teeth.

There is a knock. “Captain Rogers, sir,” the spirit reports.

Perhaps there is more to do. Perhaps they can sit in misery together. “Allow him entry.”

The Captain steps through the front door, looking around with an air of mild concern. Stripped of his armor, wearing the tight layers usually hidden beneath, he takes in the kitchen. “Want a hand with that?”

Thor dismisses the broken device, the slumping door with an irritated wave. Everything here is so flimsy. “What do you require?”

The Captain places his shield at a respectful distance from Mjölnir. “I wanted to check on you.”

“I am uninjured.”

“You don’t sound thrilled about it. You mind if I sit?”

Thor grunts and drinks to quell the dust still in his throat. It is an astoundingly poor show of manners, but the Captain ignores it and sits. The man is insensible to offense: small wonder Stark goads him. Their host’s salacious pranks intrude on his memory: the cartoon Captains grinned or simpered, in their scanty costumes. They never looked so studiously neutral as their subject does now.

“You willing to talk about it?”

“You loathe discussing emotions.”

“You’re not wrong,” the Captain admits. “Usually you love that kind of talk. Feelings. What’s going on, Thor?”

Gentle eyes like the ones on Stark prompt a snarl of deep annoyance in his gut. From the door, Mjölnir vibrates unhappily.

“Why do you suffer such disrespect from Stark? It undermines your leadership.”

“I don’t mind it.”

“That is a _lie_.”

The Captain’s brows rise. “Fair enough. And Tony's mouthy, sure, but he follows orders.”

“When he deems them worthy of his notice.” The accusation is not entirely fair; Stark has slowly grown to trust the Captain’s leadership. Their effectiveness is much-improved as a result. When Thor tilts the first bottle up from his lips, it is is empty. He reaches for another.

“I can work with Tony,” the Captain says mildly. “Can you?”

It is a ridiculous question. Between his possession of Mjölnir and Stark’s ever-changing armor, they provide important mobility, strength, and control of the air to the team, but they rarely interact on the field. And they get along well enough: Stark does not needle Thor as he does the Captain.

It must be like prodding a corpse.

“Until today, I wouldn’t have thought I needed to ask,” the Captain adds, in response to his silence. “Unless it’s me you’re concerned with?”

“What did Stark say to you after the battle?”

“That’s private.” The more visibly annoyed Thor is, the calmer the Captain’s demeanor.

Thor grimaces. “Not his _mewling_ , whatever it was. He _said_ something to you, after the battle.”

“Nothing unusual.”

“Such conduct should not be—” Thor realizes he is shouting, half-standing from the cushions. The conversation is a circle. Mjölnir’s distress is a whine in his ears. He groans.

The Captain reddens. “If this is just about your sense of decorum, Thor, you need to adjust it.” His tone remains mild. For a moment Thor imagines him like another of Stark’s automatons, whirring happily in the face of abuse. But the Captain is not happy.

They stare at each other.

The Captain sighs. “You really want to know what Tony said?”

Thor nods stiffly, the whine of the hammer winding down.

“I must be worse off than I thought, taking emotional advice from Jack Frost,” the Captain quotes, doing a surprisingly accurate imitation of Stark’s clipped tones, the uneven rhythms of his speech. He shrugs. “It doesn’t _mean_ anything, Thor. He was just embarrassed. He had a bad moment on the field. And, well, Staten Island.”

“He robbed you of your joy.”

A line creases between the Captain’s brows. “What?”

Thor finishes the second bottle. He hands another to the Captain, who takes it, still staring at him.

He considers how to phrase his response as he thumbs open a fourth.

“You possess a great sadness” he begins. “It leaves you only in battle. It returns in time, but typically not so quickly. You offered Stark kindness and in response he hastened your return to your misery.”

The Captain sips his drink. “Jesus,” he says quietly. “That bad, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Spare my feelings, why don’t you.”

“There is no reason to demur.”

“I’ll work on it,” the Captain says, frowning when Thor snorts.

“You enjoy being miserable, I think. It has the comfort of the familiar.”

There is a moment of confusion—the Captain looks so _young—_ before his mouth hardens into a line. “I don’t know what you’re trying to start, Thor, but I’m not getting into it. Thanks for the drink.” He stands wearily, a husk compared to the warrior on the field. As loathe to engage here as he was with Stark.

All their ventures to Midgardian pleasure gardens have done little to truly earn the Captain’s confidence. All the evenings spent trading stories mean nothing more than this. The hammer is heavy on the floor and the shield will ever be at a polite remove.

“Your man, Barnes,” Thor hears himself rumble.

There is a stillness to the Captain, but something stirs beneath the surface. Something other than receding joy and growing resignation. The slumping shoulders rise and tighten.“What about him?”  

Thor places the near-full bottle on the table, leans forward. He enunciates, forming the words with slow care. “Your misery shames his memory. He died so you would live, not shuffle around these halls like a corpse forced to walk.”

The Captain blinks and stalks around the table with a strangeness in his eyes.

“Say that again.”

Thor stands; finally, finally feeling something other than annoyance or an amorphous, maddening need as he looks down at the Captain. “I said that this misery of yours is an insult to your lover’s mem—” but the Captain is upon him and the dizzying crunch that resounds through his skull is a fierce surprise. The Captain has broken his nose.

It should not be possible, he thinks as they wrestle to the floor. No doubt the Captain’s hand is broken; grabbing it and squeezing confirms the suspicion. The Captain bellows and his uninjured hand seizes Thor’s throat.

Thor grins and drops the Captain’s hand to grip the back of his neck instead. No need to finish so quickly. An honest grapple is the proper cure for his malaise. The man is not made of marble, but warm flesh pressing down on him. Not a challenge, but perhaps a pleasure.

“Again,” he coaxes, leaning close. The man’s grip only tightens, compressing the flow of blood beneath the skin.

Anger. Tenacity. This is the man Barnes knew, who warmed his bed.

“Sirs,” the building interjects.

“Again,” Thor repeats and when the Captain does not respond, he slaps him like an errant child.

“Captain Rogers, I—”

“Stay out of it, JARVIS.” The Captain’s dismissal is a thing of fierce beauty. Feeling a lightness in his head, Thor shifts his weight to pin the Captain, breaking the grip on his throat. The table slides behind him, and bottles roll on the floor. None near enough to grab. The thought of the Captain reduced to the tactics of a tavern brawl makes Thor huff hot breath between bared teeth.

The Midgardian struggles beneath him. Hopelessly. The man cannot win in a contest of pure strength.

But Barnes’ man was not trained to fight gallantly. The heel of his broken hand drives into Thor’s nose and though the Captain roars in pain, he writhes like the Widow. Distracted, Thor nearly lets him escape, but he grabs the Captain, hauling him back by his thigh and ankle. Grips him with real strength, feeling the bones beneath the flesh.

Thor pins him, properly this time, and stares down at the Captain’s struggling. Fresh blood drips onto the man’s split lip.

“Peace,” Thor says, when it becomes obvious that otherwise the Captain will fight until he injures himself further. Holding him down is a greater task than anticipated.

“Take it back,” the Captain seethes. He is no longer thinking strategically; that is the cost of the rage that lights his eyes.  Perhaps this is what it was like for others to hold him down once, when he was more vicious than vigorous.

What would it be like for the Captain to submit?

“No.” Thor presses down and he squeezes the Captain’s broken hand in an admonitory grip. “ _Stop struggling_.”

The Captain spits in his eye and what happens next as Thor blinks away the gob of blood and saliva is slightly unclear. The Captain scrambles away, backing into the leg of another upturned chair.

They stare; the Captain crouching with blood on his face, Thor pushing himself up from the floor.

“Take it back,” the Captain orders. The command is ridiculous; Thor’s injuries are healing. The Captain’s cannot heal with same speed; already, he favors the broken hand. He cannot hope to win.

But the man has never depended on hope, merely stubbornness

Thor wipes the last of the blood from his eye: his own blood and the Captain's together, thinned with saliva. He stares at the long streak of red on his fingers before preparing to right his nose. Already, it is in danger of healing improperly.

“Do you truly believe you honor him, as you are?” Thor grits his teeth and adjusts his nose. He watches the pulse of the Captain’s throat through watering eyes, sees the tension in his muscles. He looks _alive_. “Now, perhaps, you do. But once the battle leaves you, you diminish. You loathe the life he saved.”

“I do the job,” the Captain insists, still tense even as Thor holds up his empty hands.

“Was that what Barnes died for?”

The Captain stares in reply. The blood is drying on Thor's hand, the bridge of his nose. The rude gift of the Captain's mouth.

Thor sighs and turns his back on the Captain to right his chair; the movement would be a grave error as well as an insult was the Captain not coming back to himself. As it is, Thor just wants his drink.

The chair is sturdily made and remains mostly sound. His drink, however, is on the floor in a puddle of ale. He drags the table back into its proper position, pleased the box of bottles is unharmed. He opens a new bottle and rolls ale around in his mouth until the taste of blood recedes. He gestures at the seat opposite.

“Be honest with me. Would it please him to see you like this?”

“No.” The Captain touches his swollen lip. His hands are hard: even a gentle touch must scrape. He sits in the chair like a shamefaced boy. “I shouldn’t have…Jesus, that was inappropriate. I’m sorry.”

“You are overly appropriate. I prefer you honest.” Thor sniffs through a blocked nose. “We should grapple more often. You are surprisingly nimble.”

“Peggy Carter. She’d give me an earful over this,” the Captain says, cradling his swollen hand. “Dumb mistake.”

“You acquitted yourself well, given your anger.”

The Captain snorts and reaches for his drink. “Sure, I did.” There is still color in his cheeks as the wounds mend, as he relaxes, but it is fading. There is the temptation to call it back: pin him down and keep him there and watch the blood bloom under his skin. Trace the broken lip as it heals.

“Perhaps you will do better next time. After a visit to one of Stark’s new museums. But first, his healers?”

“...Sounds good. Just let me finish my drink.” The Captain drinks deeply and he peers into the neck of the bottle. “Was all this—the trips, the rest of it—just to get me to…cheer up?”

“Not entirely,” Thor says, “I enjoy your company.”

“ _Why?_  You said yourself, I’m—” the Captain shrugs lopsidedly. “I’m not _fun_.”

“You are very pleasant to look at.”

The Captain laughs; a low, strained sound. “Likewise, I guess, when your nose isn’t pointing to the left.”

“My profile is regal even in injury.”

“That’s one opinion,” the Captain says. “Uh. You ever been to Coney Island?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This started as an exercise while I struggled with writer's block for Trefoil and ended up being a fun way to flesh out the team. I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Content Notes:  
> \- The team deal with a small-scale disaster; the description is not explicit  
> \- Thor taunts Steve, prompting a fight; they are both injured, though not beyond their respective healing capacities

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
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>   * "<3" as extra kudos
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> 

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